The future and the past collide!
Anthropologist Serenity Steele meets her heart’s desire in the form of a
short-tempered Regency rake, Nicholas Wycliffe.

Duty or Love? In the year 2020,
anthropologist Serenity Steele's research assignment is to travel back into the
past--however, she doesn't count on the many attractions of a certain Regency
rake. Should she ignore her obligations and stay in the past... or should she
leave behind the man she loves?

An
Enchanting Dilemma: Nicholas Wycliffe, the toplofty Lord Brockton, has no
desire to take a wife, especially a mysterious widow who doesn't live by
society's rules. But what is he to make of the enchanting "Mrs."
Steele, who not only refuses to discuss her past, she also has the audacity to
turn him down when he proposes marriage?

Scene Set-Up:

On assignment in the past,
Serenity attends her first “haut ton” ball. As she studies the notorious rake,
Nicholas Wycliffe, Lord Brockton, she finds him studying her.

Excerpt:

Inhaling deeply, Serenity relaxed for the
first time this evening and looked over at her companion. Amazing how he should
have taken offense at her words... but he didn’t.

What was he thinking? She admired his
profile: the high forehead, straight nose, and his smooth, well-defined jaw.
His features, though, gave no clue to his internal thoughts.

She exhaled again. Of course it was
unwise to relax in the presence of a rake, but then again, how else would she
see how a professional seducer practiced his art? Something told her she
wouldn’t have long to wait.

While she was looking up at the moon of
the nineteenth century, Brockton stepped closer and brushed her ear with his
lips.

Suddenly she was no longer curious. An
image of a brilliant peacock feather tickling her skin exploded in her mind.
She frantically chased it away. Why did she always have these bouts of
synesthesia--the blending of the senses--when she needed all her wits about
her?

“That’s not a good idea.” Retreating from
him, she stumbled on the carpet of grass surrounding the walkway.

He firmly gathered her back onto the path
and they continued their walk, crunching small stones beneath their feet--the
only sounds that broke the quiet.

“You are right, of course. Not a good
idea. Please forgive my momentary madness, my girl. Blame my lapse of good
manners on this romantic atmosphere.”

A smile lurked about the corners of his
mouth. He seemed so sure of himself--so certain she would respond to him.
Certain of success.

Anger coursed through her veins. “I am
neither!” she denied hotly.

“Neither what?”

“Neither yours nor a girl.” She left his
side again, but the darkness seemed almost tangible. The blackness of night
distorted the manicured yew hedges into maniacal shapes. As the wind rustled
close-cropped leaves, it was easy to imagine pairs of hands reaching
out--grabbing her.

Shivering, she quickly returned to his
comforting, yet infuriating nearness.

“You are too literal with your words, are
you not, Mrs. Steele?” A wolfish grin showed he enjoyed her unease. He circled
his arm around her waist.

His touch felt warm through her silky
gown. Again she saw that peacock feather. When his fingers gently kneaded her
skin, she flinched.

“We should be getting back now. If you
please.” She placed some space between them.

Her report on a libertine’s motus
operanti would have to be glaringly omitted from the monograph. She was too
nervous, too affected, and right now she didn’t have time to study her
reactions. Escape was utmost in her mind. “I’ve heard it’s not at all the thing
for a lady to be alone with a rake for any length of time.”

The term “rake” failed to trouble him.
Probably had been called worse!

“Is that how you see me? As a rake and a
rutting buck?” He stopped walking, leaned closer to her, and then with his
fingertip, slowly traced an imaginary line down her forehead, nose, and stopped
on her lips.

She moved her head. “I don’t know you
well enough to venture an opinion. But we do need to return before anyone
notices our absence.”

“You can start getting to know me by
calling me ‘Nicholas.’“

He drew her closer. She tried to push him
away, but he held her tighter. Leaning down to nuzzle her ear with his nose, he
whispered, “And I shall call you ‘Serry.’ What is that short for?”

Without waiting for an answer, his lips
met hers.

Omigosh! She trembled--all the way down
to her core. After a brief hesitation, her lips opened slightly, welcoming him.

He deepened the kiss and their heated
breaths mingled.

Without meaning to, Serenity moaned.
Snuggling closer, she drank in the taste of Nicholas Wycliffe.

Alive. She finally felt alive.

He tightened his arms around her, tilting
her head back and exploring the inner recesses of her mouth.

A flash of bold colors--crimson reds,
scarlet pinks, and flaming oranges--rose up in her mind. Percussionist cymbals
clashing sounded in her ears. As their mouths melded, her senses slowly spun
out of her control....

Colors? Cymbals?

Her heart pounding a path out of her
body, she shook her head to clear the last traces of the vision and then opened
her eyes. Sanity returned. She roughly pulled back from Brockton and his potent
kiss.

The truth was obvious: Nicholas Wycliffe
was responsible for plunging her into a world of synesthesia. His touch--no one
else’s. Just his touch turned her upside down, inside out.

Good heavens! What should she do now?

She slid her hands down her gown,
ostensibly to straighten her garment, but in reality, she needed to steady her
trembling body.

As she did, he watched her. His eyes held
a peculiar expression and his hands were tightly clenched by his sides. Looking
at him, she was mesmerized by the light of the full moon dancing brightly on
his dark, wavy curls. She had to say something. Had to pretend his kiss meant
nothing to her. Which was true, right? Absolutely nothing.

She flicked her tongue over her lips
before speaking. A mistake. She tasted him again.

“Um, since you asked, Serry stands for
Serenity. Now, if I understand Society’s conventions correctly, this outing
could compromise you... and me. We don’t want that to happen, so I’ll do us
both a favor and leave. We’ll forget about this...” Her voice cracked. “...this
interlude by tomorrow. Good-night, Lord Brockton.”

Moving as swiftly as she could, she
returned to the sanctuary of the ballroom.